


The Dying of the Light

by brinnanza



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-28
Updated: 2014-10-28
Packaged: 2018-02-22 22:51:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2524634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brinnanza/pseuds/brinnanza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lantean Mourning Lanterns--They gather on one of the piers to mourn their dead, each writing the names of those they've lost on a paper lantern to be released into the sky.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Dying of the Light

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Português brasileiro available: [A Morte da Luz](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6266017) by [Rosetta (Melime)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melime/pseuds/Rosetta)



> Based on [this Tumblr post](http://popkin16.tumblr.com/post/18468316124/beckersher-these-are-lantean-mourning), courtesy of Popkin16, that suggests the idea of Lantean mourning lanterns: the expedition gathers once a year to mourn and remember their losses with paper lanterns. I just took the idea and ran with it.

They started at dusk, just as the last vestiges of sunlight were dipping below the horizon. The city was on a skeleton crew, and everyone not absolutely necessary for security had gathered out on one of the piers. Even Rodney had been persuaded to leave his lab and simulations when Teyla had made an appeal. He stood with John and the rest of the team near the front of the crowd.

The lanterns had been passed out previously, paper contraptions with a filament that glowed when a tab was removed, allowing several chemicals to mix together. The resultant gas that was emitted caused the lanterns to float. John pulled several thick black markers from a pocket and handed them around, keeping one for himself.

Ronon wrote _Sateda_ on his lantern in thick, blocky letters. He paused, and then he added _Melena_ and passed his marker along. Teyla wrote the names of her parents and Charin in her small precise script. 

Rodney wrote _Carson Beckett_ on his lantern. He hesitated briefly before writing it as if it felt wrong to list Carson, who had been returned to them, albeit as a clone, when they had lost--really lost, permanently, with no hope for a miraculous recovery--so many. But they _had_ lost Carson, had felt his absence and mourned him, so he wrote it down.

John wrote _Aidan Ford_ and tried not to crumple the paper in a clenched fist. He passed his marker along and took a deep breath. John had lost a lot of people under his command, but Ford still hurt the most. He was just a kid (and John tried hard not to think about how so many of them were kids, practically vibrating in their eagerness to do some good, see some action, fight the bad guys, only to be declared KIA--or worse). They had never found Ford’s body, but they’d seen the hive ship go up. And even if they hadn’t, John could feel it. That eager kid was gone, and his grandparents would never know how it happened. Maybe it was better that they wouldn’t.

The markers made their way through the crowd. There was a whole book of names John could have written, but he just wrote the one. He knew no names would go unprinted.

A cool breeze drifted over them, and all at once, they released the lanterns. The wind carried them up above their heads and out over the ocean, casting a golden glow into what was rapidly becoming full dark. John leaned back to watch them, a visual representation of every life lost to the Wraith, to the arrogance of would-be gods, to stupid, fatal, final mistakes. All the “I regret to inform you” letters and body bags and empty coffins.

It was quiet except for the ocean lapping against the city and the occasional soft sob. Those that still had faiths after all they’d seen would be praying. Some of the marines were saluting. John snapped off his own salute. It was brief, but it was the sharpest one he’d ever given. He doubted even the President would have merited a salute as perfect as the one he gave their memorial.

After a moment, he lowered his eyes and studied his team, their heads all tipped back as they watched the lanterns float out across the ocean. For all of his suicide runs and near-death experiences, he had made it to this moment, along with so many of his friends, despite all they’d lost.

The list of names that Teyla could have written on her lantern was long--had been long even before the expedition had woken the Wraith and made things so much worse for the people of Pegasus. But she didn’t have to write Kanaan, who stood solemnly beside her. Or Halling. Or Jinto. And she didn’t have to write the name of her son, Torren, who was silent and still in his father’s arms, his face tucked into Kanaan’s neck.

There were many lanterns. But there were also many survivors. 

John watched Rodney. His fingers tapped idly on his thigh, unable to stand still even in the seriousness of the moment. John had felt his mortality before, sometimes acute and painfully, but he’d never had quite so much worth living for. Friends. Family. This city that came alive at his touch. Even with the lights dimmed for the ceremony, the reflection of the lanterns on the towers was beautiful.

Family.

Rodney must have felt John’s gaze because he lowered his chin and met John’s eyes. He tilted his head slightly and raised an inquisitive eyebrow, and John felt a sudden rush of affection for the man. He felt a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth and he ducked his head, struggling to quell a fond chuckle.

Rodney was a pain in the ass of the highest order, and he could reduce a grown man to tears in under ten seconds if properly motivated by stupidity. He was brash and rude and insufferable and _damn it, John loved him._ Had loved him for years if he was being honest with himself.

There had been Katie and Keller and Samantha Carter, a literal dream woman. There had been the Air Force and DADT, always a handy excuse. There was a team and a friendship he had told himself he hadn’t wanted to ruin, even though he could see it on Rodney’s face sometimes when he thought John wasn’t looking, could never forget how Rodney had called for him when he thought he was losing everything. How he’d always remembered him, even when he could barely recall his own name.

John had had to write Ford on a lantern, but he didn’t have to write McKay. He reached over and took Rodney’s hand, pulling the other man toward him. He held in a breath unconsciously, wildly concerned for a moment that he was wrong about this, that it would ruin the team and their friendship, that Rodney would pull away.

But Rodney just furrowed his brow for a moment, and then comprehension dawned on his face. His mouth slid into a crooked grin that lit him up, brighter than the lanterns’ glow. He turned his hand and laced their fingers together, and then they turned back to watch the lights until the chemicals burned out and the lanterns drifted into the sea.

Someday, maybe even someday soon, someone would have to write _John Sheppard_ on a paper lantern and release it into the Lantean sky, but not today.

Not today.


End file.
